


Beasts of Burden

by lttledcve, spinncr



Series: Valar Dohaeris [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Jon Snow has some feels, Ned Stark needs a nap, Tyrion gets shit done, Tywin Lannister is the best worst character ever, Tywin Lannister's A+ Parenting, and you can fight me on that, but like no more than usual, jaime's a mess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-07-29 13:48:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20083240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lttledcve/pseuds/lttledcve, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinncr/pseuds/spinncr
Summary: Tyrion hesitates. What he would do is either take himself all the way back to Winterfell and remain there, or, perhaps more likely, buy himself all the whores his weight in gold can buy, and parade them in front of his sister, just to see that particular pinch she gets between her brows when he irritates her. Probably not a viable option for Sansa Stark, unfortunately. “I would advise extreme caution. Perhaps a personal guard and possibly, well…”No good way to say it.“Possibly a taster, for your daughter’s safety. Just as a precaution, my Lord Hand.”***Tyrion talks to Ned, Ned talks to Jon, Jon talks to Jaime, and Jaime is talked about.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We are officially getting into the thick of things! This fic is a bit of a break from Jaimsa but moves some very necessary pieces into place. They are also some of our absolute favorite side characters interacting in ways we never got to see on screen or in the books, so we hope you enjoy :)

** _n e d:_ **

_ “A war is coming, Ned.” _

Robert’s words ring in his ears even now. He doesn’t quite believe the Targaryen child’s wedding to a Dothraki Khal warrant the level of paranoia in the King. Perhaps he’s itching for a war, for the days where they had been nothing but  _ soldiers _ , fighting to take down Aerys Targaryen. It’s as he said, even if Viserys has an army of riders behind him thanks to his sister’s marriage, he has no ships. Until such a time he tries to actually  _ cross _ the Narrow Sea there’s no reason to see a threat.

And should he try to cross, they’ll toss him right back.

Even still, the warning bears some weight. The senseless death— _ poisoning— _ of his good sister is still a mystery. Jon Arryn’s position as Hand to the King grants him some enemies, that’s something to be sure of, but to poison his wife instead? Ned can think of no reason unless there was a message. But that line of thinking leads to the next part of the mystery...where  _ is  _ Lord Arryn ? The longer he’s away from King’s Landing the more his absence will be noticed. People have already begun to flock to the Red Keep, vultures, snakes,  _ lions _ .... Bottom dwellers, the lowest kind ready to make their next move. He fears that his acting as Hand out of loyalty to his friend, his King, will only keep them back for so long until another comes to take Arryn’s place.

He hears the footsteps before he looks up, and Ned chooses to instead finish the letter inquiring about Jon’s arrival, and when they can expect him. It’s pressed close with his seal, and handed off to one of his men with a soft spoken; “See this is sent quickly,” before he even flashes his gaze towards the door.

Tyrion Lannister.

He supposes if he’s meant to entertain one of Tywin Lannister’s children, he should be glad it’s the youngest.

Though on reflection, that’s not necessarily true. Ned’s of no mind to invite any conversation with the Kingslayer, apart from Jaime Lannister’s newfound interest in his children. He’s seen the Kingsguard with Arya, and surprisingly enough  _ Sansa _ too. He has  _ questions _ , too many questions, all of which beg answers.

“Lord Tyrion,” he greets simply, once he finishes his task. “I wasn’t expecting any visitors.” Though he does gesture towards the table in invitation. “I’ll warn you now, I’ve no time for any riddles.” 

** _t y r i o n:_ **

He hates this bloody tower. Not, of course, that he has much cause to visit it, but it’s the grander,  _ taller _ cousin to the White Sword Tower, and he had thought that one was bad enough. When he finally reaches the Hand’s solar, he pauses on the landing a moment to catch his breath and shake out his aching legs before he enters. Truthfully, do normal-sized people need stairs at  _ precisely _ that height? Could not a few inches less in height make things easier for everyone? Particularly him? 

He takes the extra time to review his approach, make his case, and hopefully not come across as a lecherous pervert while doing so. It doesn’t bode well for him. He  _ is  _ a lecherous pervert. Just not about this. Hopefully the difference is enough for Ned Stark. On that note…

“Lord Hand. Lord Acting Hand. Acting Lord Hand?” Tyrion waves away the titles, and pulls himself up into the chair Ned Stark has so graciously not offered him. “I have brought no riddles with me this time, though while I have your ear, I do have some suggestions regarding infrastructural improvements in the North, which I think may benefit both the North and the West greatly. There’s a brilliant invention I’ve discovered in my research call a  _ canal.  _ The Braavosi use them to—”

Lord Stark coughs slightly. 

“Quite,” Tyrion says nodding decisively. “Firstly, I’d like you to know that your son, Jon, does you credit. He has absolutely lived up to his father’s reputation for taking everything entirely too seriously. I couldn’t even get the boy drunk. He insisted on remaining sober while “on duty,” though I have to confess to you, I hadn’t been aware he had been hired on as a guard. You must keep that between us, as, if it was up to me, Jon would never leave my employ again.” Lord Stark doesn’t know him well, but in truth, it’s quite the compliment. Tyrion rarely trusts new additions to his staff, as he had discovered upon cultivating his own network of spies just how many had been placed by one Lannister or another into his employ. And on that note...

“I’m actually here to discuss… well, it’s a rather sensitive topic, actually, and I’m hoping we can come to an agreement quickly and without any miscommunications. I’m coming as a  _ friend,  _ really. I do hope the North considers me a friend. I helped to broker the trade agreement between—” he cuts off again after one look at Lord Stark. 

“I’m here about your daughter, Sansa.”

** _N e d:_ **

Bloody  _ titles.  _

The retort dies on his tongue, simply because he has no interest in getting caught up in one of Tyrion Lannister’s games. He may be acting in Jon Arryn’s place out of loyalty to his friend, but it’s a not a role he had ever once pictured for himself. He is Warden of the North, and he and his family belong in Winterfell. Not amongst men who believe themselves to be the Gods, and who kill to cover their lies and treachery.

The planned tourney is a nice excuse to spend more time with his children, to allow them to enjoy one of the few occasions that might not be as deeply entrenched in whatever is going on with the current Lord Hand and his noticeable absence.

Jon knows something, that much is certain. But of what, he doesn’t know.

_ A war is coming, Ned. _

But from where?

Infrastructural improvements in the North. There’s no denying that the trade deals between that of his home and the Westerlands has proven to be profitable. The North may be hard and cold, and without mercy, but some of the benefits from the deal have made the usually hostile environment somewhat more welcoming – with easier access to some of the necessities.

Ned highly doubts Tyrion Lannister has made a special visit to the Hand’s Tower to discuss a  _ canal,  _ and so he coughs pointedly.

Rather than get to the business at hand, Lord Tyrion moves instead to speak of Jon, and Ned smiles, despite the pain and anger he feels at his wife’s treatment of the boy who has only ever been a credit to his family. A zen it takes passed, he had received a raven scroll from her informing him that his bastard was asked by Lord Tyrion to serve in his guard, a claim he now knows to be untrue, in addition to being against his direct orders. He had informed her that Jon would not be returning South again, and she had disobeyed him and undermined his authority in his own home. There would be  _ words _ when he returned home, but not in front of Lord Tyrion. “Jon has only ever brought me honor. I am glad he served you well, though I am afraid he will  _ not _ be joining your guard permanently.”

It’s not so much the Imp’s words that catch his attention as Lord Tyrion presumably  _ attempts _ to broach whatever topic he has come here to discuss, but more of the rambling uncertainly that he presents and Ned crosses to take the seat across from his visitor. His lips pull into a thin line, the closest he’s willing to give to a scowl in the moment as his patience begins to grow thin.

_ Sansa. _

Something drops heavily into the pit of his stomach. He had known the idea of this betrothal was a mistake from the start. She’s far too young, the Prince is... something else entirely that he doesn’t dare say aloud in this city. Yet it’s not the Prince, or Queen, nor Robert who’s come to find him.

What in the Seven Hells could Tyrion Lannister want with his daughter?

Prepare for the worst, and hope for the best.

“Speak plainly, my lord. As a  _ friend to the North _ .” If he’s so determined to be, let him try, though it does not prevent his hand from resting atop of Ice’s hilt. “What of my daughter?”

** _t y r i o n:_ **

Right. Ned Stark is clearly unimpressed with him and his business proposals. Admittedly, it wasn’t his best, but it also isn’t his reason for being here, so perhaps another time. The true conundrum is how to broach his actual reason for being here. The information he needs to convey is enough to send two kingdoms to war if he’s not careful. He knows what happened the last time a Stark daughter was treated ill. 

And now, after meeting the girl, he thinks perhaps it’s slightly more urgent that Lord Stark be put on his guard, or rather, that a guard be put on Lord Stark’s daughter. She’s incredibly quick-witted, and the softness of her childish beauty will be sculpted every day into something a little more elegant, a little more stunning. 

_ Yes, _ he thinks,  _ Sansa Stark is very much in danger from Cersei.  _

“Before I say more, Lord Hand,” he says, this time his tone serious and respectful, “I must ask you to  _ listen _ to everything I have to say. I truly have come here as a friend, with only the best of intentions.” Not a promising way to begin a discussion like this, but he has never been so directly embroiled in such a politically-fraught conversation. 

“It has been brought to my attention that the Queen has taken notice of your daughter. I would…” Tyrion hesitates. What  _ he _ would do is either take himself all the way back to Winterfell and remain there,  _ or,  _ perhaps more likely, buy himself all the whores his weight in gold can buy, and parade them in front of his sister, just to see that particular pinch she gets between her brows when he irritates her. Probably not a viable option for Sansa Stark, unfortunately. “I would advise  _ extreme _ caution. Perhaps a personal guard and possibly, well…” 

No good way to say it. 

“Possibly a taster, for your daughter’s safety. Just as a precaution, my Lord Hand.” 

** _N e d:_ **

Perhaps, Ned thinks, he should have offered wine. That would have at the very least loosened the youngest Lannister’s tongue so that he might be able to spit out what he’s actually come to say. It’s that very thought that gives him pause- it’s not like a Lannister to be forthcoming with any information, at least to him, and certainly not about  _ his  _ daughter.

If there’s any truth to what is about to be shared, with the weight Tyrion Lannister attributes to it, it must be something...

He’s not entirely sure.

Only a few moons ago Ned would’ve been able to predict everything about his children and now he isn’t quite sure. Especially with Sansa.

From what Cat had told him he had expected his daughter to be more... _ infatuated _ with the Prince, and instead she seems much more inclined to spend her days with her sister.

He shakes himself from his confusion, and fights the urge to simultaneous laugh while dragging a hand down his face. “You have my word, Lord Tyrion. I will listen until you are finished.”

_ Is that all? _ The worlds almost tumble out of his mouth, before he remembers his promise. Of course the Queen has  _ taken notice _ of Sansa, Robert is more than eager to see their families unite, and from what he can tell it looks like there’s an active push for the match to be made. He’s only been able to delay so long – citing his daughter’s age, and chalking up her disinterest due to that very young age.

He doesn’t expect the extreme caution, paired with a personal guard and –

“A taster?” He almost snorts coldly, would’ve but for the absolute lack of any jape on the Imp’s face. “Sansa is a young girl of ten and three. What could-” Ned stops abruptly.

He wants to ask, wants to know plainly if what Tyrion is saying truly means that the Queen plans on poisoning his daughter.

But surely that’s the only reason why a taster’s been mentioned, and they’re toeing a very careful line that may fall to  ** _treason_ ** if they’re not careful.

And if it’s true, he’ll be in Tyrion Lannister’s  _ debt. _

“If your words are true, why tell me? Why go against your flesh and blood?”

He hadn’t thought the Lannisters capable. 

** _t y r i o n:_ **

_ There it is.  _

He’d been worried that Lord Stark wouldn’t take him seriously, but it seems he hasn’t forgotten the dangers of the Red Keep for House Stark. He doesn’t know Ned Stark well, or at all really, but Tyrion respects his quiet consideration, a rare enough find for a dwarf in his experience. He’s heard Ned referred to as the Quiet Wolf, but it isn’t a moniker that makes an impression, honestly, and he’d rather forgotten about that. He was expecting something a little more explosive. Quite glad to be mistaken, on this occasion. 

“Indeed, Lord Hand,” he says, brows raised. 

Saying it aloud  _ is _ dangerous. Treasonous, even, though he supposes he’s in slightly more danger than the acting Hand. His sister has been looking for a reason to kill him since the day he was born. He hadn’t given her one yet (though he’s sure she’d disagree), no reason to start now. 

The taster is just a precaution, as far as he knows there are no  _ actual _ plots to kill Sansa yet, poison or otherwise, but it’s only a matter of time really, especially if Jaime doesn’t put an end to their  _ dagger lessons.  _ But it’s a  _ smart _ precaution. He doubts Cersei is dumb enough to use a poison quick enough to be detected by a taster right away, but if both the taster and Sansa both mysteriously take ill, at least they will know they are dealing with foul play, and not simply foul humours of the body.

That’s another question. When did it suddenly become ‘they’, as if he’s included in that collective? He, Jaime, and Honorable Ned Stark, what a grouping. But he knows, actually, when it became a group he considered himself a part of. It was the moment Sansa had made her quip about handling daggers, and Jaime had confessed to offering the two young women lessons in self-defense. And Tyrion had taken his cyvasse piece and moved it right across the board to the other side with nary a second thought. He still is no closer to understanding the relationship between Jaime and the Stark daughters, but whatever they have sparked in Jaime, it isn’t isolated to just their time together. Whatever they have done, they have brought Jaime back to life, and that puts Tyrion solidly in their camp. 

“The majority of my flesh and blood would not lose a wink of sleep if I were to be eaten by a dragon right this very instant. Cersei would probably find it amusing, my father, a relief.” It’s not an easy thing to confess, so he says it drolly, as if it’s some great jape and not the foundational knowledge that has informed every decision he has ever made in life. “The realm owes many great debts to House Stark, and I would not see it lose another daughter if I have the means to prevent it. And,” he adds as an afterthought, “I’m not well acquainted with the realm’s books, but I  _ am _ well acquainted with the Rock’s, and I can safely guess that the Realm cannot afford a war at this point in time. Plus, I find your daughter quite lovely, and I would hate to see her hurt.”

** _N e d:_ **

Indeed, the imp merely echoes, as if somehow that’s nearly enough to explain the sort of madness that’s happening in the Hand’s solar. Between the King’s insistence that the Targaryen girl is still a threat even on the other side of the Narrow Sea, paired with  _ Tyrion Lannister _ telling him that the Queen might take it upon herself to start poisoning his daughter, he doesn’t know which statement bears more weight. Which threat shall he take on first? Ned thinks to himself wistfully, and not for the first time he wishes to return home.

Tyrion Lannister’s confession leaves him with far more questions than answers, and they’re all the kinds of questions that will need to be asked carefully. Would the Queen be so bold as to try to attempt something right under his nose? Under the King’s nose? Clearly her brother thinks so, if he deems it enough of a credible thought to speak aloud.

And what of Arya? If the Queen’s attentions have drifted to one daughter, what’s to prevent her attentions from going to the other?

Ned blows out a slow breath and drags his hand down his face as he leans back in his chair. They’re too young for this, they’re just girls...Children.

Tywin Lannister makes the regard he holds his youngest in no secret, but his son is still a Lannister, and Ned isn’t sure the man’s pride for his family would allow for such a situation that could be deemed as  _ weak _ . He doesn’t interject though, not even when reminded of his sister. Tyrion Lannister has a way with words, and given the fact that it appears that many of the ideas that have tied the North directly to the Westerlands have come straight from his mind it’s not entirely surprising.

Though his answers are more like wind, and it’s difficult to ascertain any real reason there apart from Tyrion Lannister seems to believe not only is it the practical thing, but the  _ right _ thing.

Now if these damn Lannisters could stop surprising him, perhaps he could catch up.

“Aye,” he nods in agreement. “Peace is at least something we can agree upon.”

There’s another pause.

“I’ll thank you for the advice, Lord Tyrion. Both my daughters shall be protected here until I can arrange for them to go home.” He just needs to find the right time to explain to Robert that the betrothal wouldn’t work between that particular pair, and the why as he goes. “Though I do suppose your brother is helping in that regard.”

For the life of him he cannot figure that one out. Why the Kingslayer has gone to such lengths to placate Arya. For as much as he’s sure Sansa is there – her love of songs and stories is not missed by him – it seems like far too much a coincidence that the youngest of the two girls had found herself a teacher.

“Yes, I’m aware of the sword fighting lessons.” 

** _t y r i o n:_ **

Graciousness is not a word Tyrion would’ve thought to apply to Ned Stark; it’s a word that calls to mind queens and ladies (of course, not  _ this  _ queen, nor any of her ladies), and yet he finds all the same it fits quite well. Most lords would turn their noses up at Tyrion and any advice he had to offer. All Lord Stark had asked for was an explanation and the reason behind his motives. With both delivered, he appears to be taking Tyrion and his warning quite seriously. He hadn’t thought he’d enjoy a conversation with Ned Stark about threats to his daughter’s life involving the Lannisters, and yet… Well, it’s not quite  _ enjoyable _ per se, but he does see why Ned Stark has the respect of the entire realm. 

Ah, well. That is not  _ exactly _ the outcome Jaime was hoping for, Tyrion would wager, but he can’t disagree that that is what is safest. For all of Sansa’s wit and Arya’s joie de vivre, they will both be safer the further away from this city they get. He doesn’t look forward to their departure, he realizes, surprising himself. He doesn’t know them well enough to be so attached, and yet, there is no joy in imagining his brother returning to the shell of what he’d once been. Perhaps some correspondence could help? Robert is arranging a tourney for the return of Jon Arryn, perhaps there is opportunity for something…

Tyrion looks up at Lord Stark in surprise. “Ah, how… how  _ intriguing,  _ my lord. A most unusual method in protecting your daughters, and one which I applaud, wholeheartedly. I daresay your young Arya could already take a man twice her size. Ferocious young thing,” he says fondly. He taps a fingernail against the desk. “Thank you, my Lord, for heeding me. I wish no enmity between our families. In fact, if you have time to discuss the canals…”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Perhaps it is for the best, after all. This far South us Starks must stick together.”
> 
> _But I am not a Stark. And you sent me South alone before._ He bites his tongue once more.

** _j o n:_ **

There is much Jon doesn’t understand about his father. He doesn’t understand why Lord Stark won’t speak of his mother, but had never sent Jon away either. The servants and guardsmen of Winterfell always whispered that it was out of love for Jon’s mother, and spoke to the depth of his Lord Father’s pain at her loss, and Jon likes to believe that true. But if it is, why had Lord Stark not allowed Jon to travel south with him when the king travelled back to King’s Landing? Why had he never forbade Lady Stark’s cruel words and actions? Jon knows his place, and always has. But even in the South, bastards of great lords are often given their own keeps, or even kept on as masters-at-arms or castellans. Before the king had summoned Jon south, he had known one day he would join the Black Brothers at the Wall. It had seemed adventurous and gallant to an eight year old, but then he had heard the way the Wall was talked about south of the Neck.

The South was supposed to be a place of absurd extravagance, of laziness and ostentation and men who forgot the trials of life that one could not escape in the North. And in many ways, it  _ is. _ King’s Landing is dirty and smelly and  _ poor _ . It is populated by thieves and crooks and liars, and that’s only the courtiers. The first time he had heard Jaime talk such words, he’d been taken aback, but he had quickly seen that Jaime spoke truth. The men that King Robert surrounded himself with—excepting his Hand, of course—lacked both the honor and the honesty he had been raised with. It made navigating the Red Keep a nightmare, even despite not having any secrets to keep. Maids were spies and spies were children. The people most disliked—people like his own knight, Ser Jaime, and his brother, Tyrion Lannister—were kind and helpful while the people with the most friends seemed to increase in cruelty per person attending them. The King and Queen topped the list (though he had only ever uttered his thoughts on the subject once before Lord Tyrion had hushed him and urged to not speak thusly until he had crossed the Neck), followed by men like Lord Baelish and even Lord Renly. The latter wasn’t  _ cruel _ , per se, but while Jon had been taken in at first with the man’s charisma and charm, he had noticed the ease with which Lord Renly made fun of other courtiers the moment they stepped away, japes which his squire, Lord Loras, had been all too eager to partake in. But Lord Stannis, widely ridiculed for his severity—by his own brother, the king, most of all—had a rigid sense of honor that Jon found neither severe nor laughable. In fact, despite his dourness, Jon respected Lord Stannis most of all the lords he had met, except maybe Lord Arryn, and of course, Ser Jaime.

All told, the South is not what he had expected, and yet at the same time, he can see how such a place inspires so many songs. The architecture alone had inspired three raven scrolls to Bran and Arya when he had first arrived to squire, and even that had not been enough. Sansa had received dutiful reports of the latest fashions—even a surprisingly detailed drawing courtesy of Lord Tyrion, once—and Robb had learned of the Kingsguard and the tourneys down to the last detail of ornamentation on Loras’ stupid flower armor. 

It is these things he tries to remember now that he has returned to King’s Landing. He is not leaving the North forever, no matter what Lady Stark says. 

Though, if his father is wroth with him for coming South despite his original refusal…

Could that be what these summons are about? What if Lord Stark forces him to take the Black as punishment for disobeying his liege? Maybe Ser Jaime would take him on again as a squire, despite Jon’s refusal to take the vows of Lady Stark’s new gods. But what if he said no, too? What would Jon do then? There are the sellsword companies to the East, the ones Lord Tyrion told him stories of, and also the Citadel in Old Town…

And yet, all Jon has ever wanted is to stay in Winterfell at his brother’s side. To watch over his nieces and nephews and protect his home. Maybe take a wife one day, and have children, but he doesn’t need them. His brother’s family would be enough. 

And now he might’ve thrown it all away. To be fair, he wasn’t sure where else he was supposed to go when Lady Stark insisted he leave, without even being allowed to say goodbye to Robb.  _ Probably because she knew Robb would never agree… _

Lord Tyrion was leaving the next day for King’s Landing, and Jon would be leaving with him. 

But now he must answer for why he disobeyed his Lord Father. He tries to swallow the welling anger at the unfairness of it all, but he knows very well a bastard’s lot, and knows too, how lucky he is that his father hadn’t sent him to the Wall before now.  _ Maybe he could try for a place on the Kingsguard? _

His father answers his knock with an assent for entry, and he steels himself before opening the door. 

“My Lord, I am glad to find you well…” he begins hesitantly. Lord Stark doesn’t  _ look _ angry, though he rarely does. If anything he seems  _ tired _ and Jon can’t help but think that maybe Lady Stark was right that Stark men don’t belong in the South.  _ Though she hadn’t had a problem sending me. I don’t count, of course _ . 

“Jon. I am glad to find you well, too. Though, in truth, I can’t say I’m glad to find you here at all. I had expressly told you you were to stay in the North.”

Jon’s cheeks flush, and he has to bite back his first response. He is not a boy anymore, but a man as worthy as any, trained by a knight of the  _ Kingsguard _ . He will not  _ whinge _ . 

“There were...circumstances beyond my control which rendered that impossible, my lord.” Jon says instead, proud of himself for how  _ mature _ the words sound. If anything though, Lord Stark only seems more tired upon hearing this. 

“Would those circumstances have anything to do with Lady Stark?” 

Jon says nothing, unsure of what he  _ can  _ say. He won’t be the kind of man she accuses him of being, and surely she’d count speaking ill of her to her husband as some attempt to turn Lord Stark against her. All the same, Lord Stark sighs and punches the bridge of his nose. 

“Perhaps it is for the best, after all. This far South us Starks must stick together.”

_ But I am not a Stark. And you sent me South alone before.  _ He bites his tongue once more. 

“I am sorry, Jon, for Lady Catelyn’s actions. It was not my wish to have you leave Winterfell again so soon after returning, and she knows that. I will be speaking with her when we return.” When  _ we _ return. A vicious gratification swells in him, alongside almost agonizing relief. He has not been permanently exiled from his home. He had known that Lady Stark did not have that kind of authority, and yet she had still banished him once. What would she do when she saw him return alongside his father? It would be worth it, no matter how nasty she would be, to leave the games of the South behind, as much as he loves sparring with Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan. 

“I did not mean to cause trouble between you, father—”

“I know, son, and you haven’t. My wife knows well the consequences of her actions, and she will face them as resolutely as she created them.”

Jon dips his head in acknowledgement, unwilling to comment further. His father’s marriage has always been off limits for him to discuss, as Lady Stark has made very clear. 

“In the meantime, I must ask something of you. You’ve spent years squiring for Ser Jaime, but you’ve no intention of being a knight. Am I to assume that this is in deference to the Old Gods?”

“Aye, father. Northmen have no need of tourneys or vows to be honorable.”

At that, his father chuckles. “Aye. We don’t, and both Lord Jaime and Lord Tyrion have assured me that you have both been honorable and honored me in your comportment these past few years. You would make a fine knight, Jon. A knight any father, regardless of the Gods he keeps, proud.”

Such praise from his father isn’t  _ rare _ ; Ned Stark is nothing if not a doting father. But that doesn’t mean his praise is effusive, either. Few as they are, Ned Stark’s words  _ mean  _ something, and Jon can’t help but puff up his chest a little. He hadn’t considered being a knight, as he has no intentions of swearing vows to Lady Stark’s Gods. 

“Domeric Bolton took his vows in a godswood, to my understanding,” his father continues. “Just a few moons past.”

Jon’s eyes widen.  _ A Northron knight.  _ How many times had he and Robb dreamed of such a thing? But then he recalls how he turned down Ser Jaime’s offer, how he had returned North without finishing his squireship, knowing as he did that he could not forsake his father’s gods, not even for the glory of being a knight of the songs and legends. 

“I have already left Ser Jaime’s service, my Lord. I would not dishonor you or myself by begging that he take me back.”

His father looks at him quietly, as though searching for something. “You have your mother’s stubbornness,” he says with a sad sigh, and Jon’s stomach swoops. 

“My lord,  _ father _ , you said next time you saw me… you said you’d tell me about her.”  _ You gave your word. _ But as soon as he says it—whether it’s by the set of his father’s jaw, or the wall that shutters down behind his eyes—Jon knows Lord Stark won’t be speaking of his mother. Not now, and probably not ever. He has to fight the angry tears that gather behind his eyes.  _ I’m not a boy in need of a mother’s skirts to cling to.  _

“I’m sorry, Jon. Not here.” That’s all he says. No excuses, no explanations. Jon grits his teeth and finds he cannot meet Honorable Ned Stark’s eyes. 

“It is not too late for you to become a knight, if you so wish. One does not even need to be a squire to accomplish it.” 

It’s true, he could be knighted on the battlefield, for an act of supreme bravery, like when Barristan the Bold slayed Maelys the Monstrous. 

“In fact, what I ask of you I would not trust even the bravest of knights. This is a duty I can only trust to a Northman. To my son.”

“Name it, father, and it is yours.”

“I wish you to guard your sisters, as you would guard a lady as her sworn shield.”

Confused, honored, and a little dismayed, Jon nods. “Do they not already have guards, father?”

“They do, but it has recently come to my attention that they face danger of…” his father breaks off, frustrated. “Danger of a type most Northmen are not familiar with. You have experience with the courtiers of King’s Landing. You know their alliances and their histories far better than I or Jory Cassel would… I wish I did not have to ask it of you, I wish none of us had come to this cursed city at all… but of all the seasoned Northmen I brought with me, I trust none so much as you to keep your sisters safe from blades and words alike. Just until we return North, and then… perhaps the North will have its first landed knight? What say you to that?”

A  _ landed _ knight. He can’t mean...surely not Jon’s own keep? Agape, it takes Jon a moment to realize he’s meant to actually  _ reply.  _ “Father, it would be an  _ honor _ , I can’t… but Lady Stark…?”

Once again, Ned Stark chuckles, and comes around the desk. “It is no more than I would do for any of your brothers, nor any man who has honored my family thus. You  _ deserve _ this, Jon. You’ve made me so proud.”

Unable this time to stem the tears his father’s words have inspired, Jon does the only thing he can think of to prevent his father from seeing. He rushes forward and pulls him into an embrace. 

“You won’t regret this, father. I promise you, I will give up my life to keep them safe.”

“Gods willing, you won’t need to. And Jon? When we cross the Neck, you have my  _ word _ , my vow, that you will learn of your mother.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jon, you remember what I told you when you first arrived?”
> 
> Jon looks up at him, brow furrowing. “Trust no servant, question any friend, and avoid the royal family when possible.”

Between he and Sansa, surely one of them should’ve suspected that Catelyn Stark would take issue with Jon Snow remaining in the North. He has the sad realization that Sansa had not had the time in either life to see her mother through the eyes of an adult, at least not in person, with all her faults and vices. Jaime, however, is all too familiar with the particular brand of vitriol of which Catelyn Stark is so fond, and should’ve known she would take the first excuse she had to be rid of Jon. 

Having Jon Snow as a squire has been an odd experience to say the least. He had not thought very highly of the man last go-round, particularly the ease with which he had capitulated to the Dragon Queen’s demands, though Jaime had recognized himself—and the many demands Cersei had made of him that he had never questioned for even a moment—in that very same lack of spine. The child Jon Snow, however, had been spared the worst of Catelyn Stark’s censure—though not all of it—and the wariness in his eyes those first few months had gradually been exchanged for wide-eyed wonder. 

It had been refreshing—and somewhat humbling, oddly enough—to see the awe that he himself had once felt for Ser Arthur Dayne and Barristan the Bold be directed at him. It had been timely, too. Eight years of fear and anger and a paralyzing dispassion had weighed down on him steadily, and he had nearly reached his breaking point. His wife’s fifth birthday had recently passed, and the idea of another decade without her at his side had seemed a lifetime. 

The idea to send for Jon Snow as his squire hadn’t come as his own. It had been Selmy’s actually. Their relationship this time around is a far cry from what it had once been, though Jaime is aware that he still does not and will likely never have his Lord Commander’s respect. There is something else there however—guilt, perhaps, or maybe just sadness. A recognition one way or another that Jaime’s dramatic change in personality was a direct result of the dishonor heaped upon them by the King they were sworn to serve. It is enough to allow for civility between them, and the occasional show of concern on the part of the Lord Commander. 

Jon Snow had been one such show of concern. Selmy had suggested a squire as a way to break the monotony of duty, and, Jaime is sure, to prevent Jaime from continuing his downward cycle of melancholy. A whisper in the correct ears, and soon enough, King Robert himself was demanding that Ned Stark send his bastard boy to the capital to earn for himself a life worth living. Even Ned Stark could not deny a King’s order, though Jaime is sure he would’ve liked to.

With proper sparring partners, and plenty of hero worship in his eyes, Jon Snow had quickly become the hardest working squire Jaime had ever seen. It had been painful to see how glaringly desperate the boy had been to gain Jaime’s approval, but it had not cost Jaime anything to give it. The entire experience had been the opposite, in truth. It was not fatherhood, but something close enough to smooth the broken edges his last life had left behind. Jon had needed more than a cynical, broken man as a mentor if he were to avoid the mistakes of his past life. Jaime didn’t know how to raise a child but he knew well enough what he would’ve liked from his father, what he would’ve liked Tyrion to have from their father, and so he started there. 

Praise, gentle criticisms cushioned by advice, and a shoulder to lean on wherever necessary. And, as much as he dislikes the man, he had tried to build upon the honor code of Ned Stark, and enhance it with the common sense Sansa had implored her cousin-brother to make use of last time. 

In the end, he had become inordinately fond of the boy, nearly a man now, he supposes—and isn’t that odd, considering the boy is three years older than Jaime’s own wife—and even now, though they had parted mere moons ago, he is gladdened to see Jon Snow hard at work in the yard, moving steadily through his footwork. 

“You’re leaving your flank open again, Snow,” he drawls, and his grin widening as Jon turns and beams at him. 

“Ser Jaime!” He can see the warring desires in the boy’s eyes—wanting both to appear mature and manly in the eyes of his mentor, and also wanting to embrace the man who had raised him for the last six years. Jaime makes the decision for him, and tugs him in for a hug, with a slap on the shoulder to soothe a young man’s fragile ego. 

“You have my thanks, Jon, for protecting my brother on his travels. The first of many such missions, I hear?”

Jon’s smile turns abashed. It seems Tyrion’s discussion with Ned Stark had been well-received, at least in the sense that Stark had heeded Tyrion’s suggestion of procuring a guard for Sansa. Jon is yet a boy, and not even a knighted one at that, but Jaime has faith in his ability to duly protect Sansa. Already, Jon’s skills with a blade have surpassed the other boys his age, and even before Jaime had sent him home, Barristan had taken to sparring with him on occasion, much to the envy of Jon’s peers. 

“Aye. I’ve made my vows to my sisters to serve as their sworn shield.” Some bastards might have been dismayed at the prospect of serving their siblings, but there’s no bitterness, only a cautious delight in Jon’s words, and the steely determination with which he tackles every goal. 

“A finer shield the North has never seen.  _ If _ you guard your flank better. If you can’t guard your own, there’s no chance you’ll be able to guard your sister’s.”

Jon sighs but it doesn’t touch the lightness in his eyes, and he takes up his stance again without complaint. It’s early enough in the morning for Jon to not be on duty just yet, the sun just beginning its blood red spill over the horizon.  _ Red in the morning, a wise man’s warning. _

They spar until the few has begun to dry, Jaime pleased to see that his former squire can get him working up a sweat. 

“I see home hasn’t softened you, Snow.” He sheathes his sword and wipes the sweat from his brow. If there’s anything that’s remained constant in Jaime’s life—this one  _ and  _ the last—it’s that a sword in hand cannot fix his many problems, but it can quiet them well enough. 

“The North’s a demanding mistress.”

“And what do you know of mistresses?” Jaime teases, an eyebrow raised. He’s rewarded with a vibrant flush on his squire’s cheeks and Jaime’s grin grows. “Ah, so the green boy’s not so green anymore, it would seem.”

“No, it’s not— I would never…”

“So you  _ are  _ still a green boy then?” Jon scowls at him, flush still burning on his cheeks. Jaime claps him on the shoulder conspiratorially. “You know, there’s a bit of a tradition amongst knights. A newly knighted man is often treated to a bedmate of his choice…”

“I am not a knight.”

Jaime sighs. “Yes, I  _ know _ Jon, not for lack of trying on your mentor’s part, I’d like to point out.”

“The Old Gods—”

“Don’t need fancy vows and ceremonies, I know. And neither do we in order to celebrate. What say you?” Jaime’s never been one for whores himself, but acclimating Jon to the many charms of women  _ before _ he’s taken in by another inordinately powerful woman with fire-breathing dragons can only help their cause in the long run. Jon, for his part, looks mortified. 

“A kind offer, Ser Jaime, but I’m afraid I would be dishonoring my father’s good name to behave thusly.” 

Well, if the return to formal titles hadn’t proved Jon’s opinion on the subject, the steel in his words certainly would. Fine then, they would find other ways to  _ acclimate  _ him. They had more pressing concerns regardless. In tandem, they began walking toward the Tower of the Hand. 

“Jon, you remember what I told you when you first arrived?”

Jon looks up at him, brow furrowing. “Trust no servant, question any friend, and avoid the royal family when possible.”

Jaime nods, and leans in as to not be overheard. “I’m sure your father has discussed this with you, but Sansa has caught the attention of the Queen—”

“Your sister?” Jaime shushes him and moves closer. 

“ _ Yes, _ and it’s not a good thing. You must stay vigilant for threats, particularly those of an underhanded sort. Poison, spies, rumors, the like. Anything that can compromise Sansa, be it physically or by way of her reputation.”

“What of Arya?” He’s already got his hand on the hilt of his sword, jaw clenched at the thought of a threat coming for his sisters. Where had this fervent protective streak been after the Battle for the Dawn? Why had he been so easily cowed?

“Arya, thank the Gods, has somehow managed to remain disregarded, though I suspect she needs no help compromising her person  _ nor  _ her reputation.” At that, Jon snorts and his fingers ease their grip on his hilt slightly.

“I tell you this only so that you are aware of the dangers, not because I believe the Queen is planning to harm your sister imminently.” No, just your sister’s husband at this point. “It is better to be safe than sorry.”

“I appreciate it, Jaime,” Jon says solemnly, the informal address something Jaime has been trying to get Jon to use for years now. He squeezes the boy’s shoulder, and steps away. 

“Barristan’s been eager to test you in the yard again. I expect you don’t disappoint me.”

Jon grins and nods. “Yes ser.”

It’ll have to do for now.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once, Tywin had known his son. He was a simple boy, with a simple mind. He wanted to be a knight, like every other young boy in Westeros. He wanted to go on adventures and have songs written about his quests. He did not want to be a lord, but that was irrelevant. He did not read well, but that was also irrelevant. Tywin had corrected the latter problem himself, and the first was a non-issue. Jaime would be Lord of Casterly Rock, and he would make his father proud. 
> 
> And then Jaime had died.

“What.” 

Tywin doesn’t give the creature the satisfaction of looking up from the ledgers he’s looking over. Joanna’s son shuffles back and forth on his disfigured legs, and were it anyone else, Tywin would assume they were intimidated. Not so with this one. No, he tries to hide it, but Tyrion looks almost  _ gleeful _ to be imparting this news. 

“Jaime has befriended the Starks.” 

“Yes, I know that, his squire, the bastard boy—”

“ _ Not _ the squire bastard boy actually, father. Ned Stark’s  _ daughters.”  _

What. 

Tywin has too many years of court intrigue under his belt to give the imp an ounce of his surprise, his curiosity, or the sudden horrifically painful kernel of hope struggling to take root, and yet even so, while he doesn’t yet look up, his hand does still over the parchment.  _ His son, his heir, the future of House Lannister… _

Tywin Lannister knows that his relationship with his children is dysfunctional at best. His daughter is Queen, yes, but also a fool. The imp is… admittedly shrewd, and useful in some instances, but still the monster who ripped apart his beautiful Joanna, the monster he can’t bring himself to call his son, not if it can be avoided. 

Jaime…

Jaime is an enigma. 

Once, Tywin had known his son. He was a simple boy, with a simple mind. He wanted to be a knight, like every other young boy in Westeros. He wanted to go on adventures and have songs written about his quests. He did not want to be a lord, but that was irrelevant. He did not read well, but that was also irrelevant. Tywin had corrected the latter problem himself, and the first was a non-issue. Jaime  _ would _ be Lord of Casterly Rock, and he would make his father proud. 

Then Aerys—

Aerys had been a problem, one which Jaime had corrected, albeit too late. Still, to this day Tywin has never been so angry at, so proud of, so afraid for one of his children. The fool had sat on the Iron Throne, and hadn’t made a single move to claim the crown. He had personally avenged his mother, avenged decades of ridicule and humiliation of House Lannister at the hands of House Targaryen. He had broken the oaths of the Kingsguard, crimes punishable by death. 

Tywin had known on some level that Robert Baratheon could not afford to alienate him by executing his son, but Jon Arryn and Ned Stark were exactly the wrong two men sitting behind Robert to prevent that. The fool Ned Stark always believed that honor would win out—despite how well that worked out for more than half of his family preceeding the Rebellion—and that duty required broken oaths be punished, no matter that Jaime had killed the man who had brutally murdered his father and brother. Idiot. 

Jon Arryn was a more deft touch, and yet Tywin would not trust the man with the life of his son. So he bargained Cersei for Jaime, giving Cersei the crown she’d always wanted, and stripping Jaime of the white cloak that had been forced on him. Only Jaime had refused, had pledged his life and sword to Robert Baratheon, and then… 

And then Jaime had died. It’s more lyrical a description than he typically has patience for, and yet, there’s no other way to describe it. His son still breathed, still threw out insolent quips when provoked, still strutted around the keep like he owned it—he may as well have, it was bought with Lannister armies and Lannister gold—but there was nothing in his eyes anymore, and no personality to be found. He was living off a mummer’s script, and a poor one, at that. 

He still refused to leave the Kingsguard, a fact which enraged Tywin to no end. He still refused to fight his vows, said nothing to defend his honor, and seemed so infuriatingly  _ resigned _ . Tywin had been sure it was just Jaime’s rather numerous mistakes catching up with him. He’d felt smug at the time, being proven right. He still feels a bit of satisfaction that the life Jaime had scorned his birthright for had been found wanting, but there had been a deep-seated worry for his son, too, in that secret hidden corner of his heart that he had tried to bury with Joanna. The part that loved his children. Jaime had never recovered from whatever it was that had broken him, and Tywin has never known how to fix that. No cold lectures, no amount of intimidation or threat had managed to break through to his son. In fact, the only means Tywin had to threaten him with was Tyrion, who also was the only person who could reach Jaime anymore, and thus, unbeknownst to Tyrion himself, untouchable. 

Tywin knew about Jaime’s lessons with his younger brother. He had meant to put a stop to them, until Tyrion started coming to him with  _ ideas.  _ Not the ridiculous daydreams he used to pester Kevan and Gerion with, but actual, conceivable ideas. The fact that the historical treaty with the North had been born from the son a maester once called a lackwit and the son he had thought capable of nothing but whoring and drinking and tarnishing the Lannister name with hitherto unforeseen dedication… it had been shocking. 

Tyrion has been responsible for other decent innovations throughout the Westerlands, and while Tywin cannot confirm that Jaime is the origin of these ideas, he knows he’s somehow involved in the brainstorming process. 

Tywin is not ready to sacrifice the actually somewhat respectable progress his sons have made for their family to force Jaime’s hand, not yet. And now he might not have to. 

“The Stark  _ daughters?”  _

The two of them have arrived at a strained sort of truce: Jaime is their priority. Tywin will have his heir returned to him, mind and body. Tyrion wants his brother back, and free from whatever it is that has plagued him for so long. Tyrion had promised him news upon his arrival to King’s Landing. Hi s initial reports out of Winterfell had been intriguing, but Tywin had written them off. He could not base any of his countless strategems on a  _ slight change in countenance.  _ And yet, it had been enough for him to decide to make the journey to the capital. 

And now Tyrion is telling him that Jaime has  _ friends.  _

“Their ages?”

“Eleven and thirteen.” 

He resists the urge to sigh. Jaime has friends who are  _ children.  _ Honestly, his children are useless. 

The eldest—Sansa, he recalls is her name—she’s perhaps of marriageable age. If she hasn’t flowered yet, she will soon. Tywin simply needs to get his son recused from duty, a problem he has spent nearly twenty years trying to answer, and do it before Sansa Stark is wedded off to the next highest bidder. It’s perhaps something of a gap in age, but Jaime would be the most eligible bachelor in Westeros aside from Joffrey, and anyone who thinks that little shit counts as an ‘eligible bachelor’ is touched in the head. Brother to the Queen and uncle to the future king of Westeros. Heir to Casterly Rock, Heir to the West, the Golden Lion of Lannister… Jaime will be the richest man in Westeros when he inherits, a Lord Paramount and Warden of the West. Even the fool Ned Stark would be hard pressed to refuse such a match. 

But the Kingsguard do not marry. 

He grits his teeth, and vows to change that. 

“Tell me,” he demands. 

“Well… He’s teaching them self-defense, I gather. Ned Stark even  _ knows _ he’s doing it. The youngest is actually somewhat talented at swordplay. Apparently, her brothers have been teaching her in secret—”

“The eldest?” He doesn’t care about the younger. She won’t be marriageable for years yet, and Tywin has grown impatient. 

“Sansa? She is...well, to be honest the word that comes to mind is  _ formidable,  _ though I couldn’t pick one thing that made me say so.” Tywin raises an eyebrow. Tyrion has about as much patience for fools as he does. Such praise for a girl of three-and-ten? 

“Go on.”

“She’s obviously quite clever, and seems to know her way around court, despite the fact that she’s only rarely left Winterfell, let alone the North. She’s got a sharp wit, and a sharper tongue. I daresay she’ll be quite dangerous when she’s older.” 

Tywin looks at the disfigured creature masquerading as his son. Is he besotted? He’d have to be daft to imagine he has a chance with the daughter of a Lord Paramount, let alone a daughter of  _ Ned Stark _ . Tywin has already tried two other, less powerful Lord Paramounts, and was laughed away for his trouble. And it doesn’t matter anyway. She’ll be Jaime’s, if he has any say. 

“Why do you think Jaime is  _ friendly _ with them? How does he act?”

“He smiles, father,” Tyrion says seriously. That’s almost enough to stop there, but Tywin makes an impatient noise and waves Tyrion on. “He… he laughs and japes with the youngest, and—”

Tyrion pauses, eyes darting away, tongue stuck in his cheek. Tywin may despise the monster, but that hardly means he can't read him just as well, if not better, than his other two children. Tyrion is hiding something from him. 

“ _ And?” _

“Well, it’s… I think perhaps Jaime may know Sansa better than I think.”

_ ...What.  _

“How much better?”

“Too much.” 

Tywin says no more, but dismisses Tyrion with a wave of his hand. This is either very, very good, or very, very bad. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus we end our little interlude of fathers and sons and fathers who are not fathers and sons who wish they were. Turns out Tywin is one of my favorite characters to write! Go figure. 
> 
> Some of you were excited that we got away from the RP format in this part, but alas, we shall return in the next. BUT! The next installment is one of my all-time favorites in this series, so I hope that's enough of an incentive to stick with us. Things are going to get exciting >:D


End file.
